


I need you.

by trashmikkelsen (eyesofchinablue)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesofchinablue/pseuds/trashmikkelsen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By destroying the sole evil inside himself, Dean has unleashed more demons from the deeper corners of his mind; only this time they're human, and harder to control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I need you.

Dean lay alone in his room. The record had stopped playing music , he hadn't even notice the silence, and the needle was aimlessly dragging waves in and out along the vinyl. His breathing was deep and low, and every so often it would hitch slightly as if he was about to choke. The room was dim, and it smelt musky. He hadn't left it since the case with Kate, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to get up and leave it again.

Sam had passed by on routine each day to leave a plate of food, or throw a water bottle onto the bed. The first couple of days he lingered; meandering around the room, making small talk about books he'd recently read, or attempt to reminisce over something Dean believed was half made up to keep him in the room longer. He'd nod, to show he was listening, and whenever Sam left space for a response he grunted or cracked a half-assed yeah to move him along. He figured Sam took the hint because he stopped doing it a week ago, and in a way he was grateful.

It's not that he didn't want to talk to his brother. Every time he attempted to respond, it was as if a claw rose up from within his throat and stole his voice away, rendering him mute. The more he tried to speak, the deeper the claw would drag it, and soon he decided it was easier if he just didn't.

He shoved himself onto his side and exhaled into the pillow. It was a broken breath, and Dean stayed with his eyes pressed against the material, his chest heaving slightly. He fought the urge to let his knees draw up to his stomach, and he dug his fingers into the mattress until the tips burned and his knuckles began to pale. He wasn't crying, he told himself, he wasn't crying. His legs squirmed among the blankets, and he kicked the air in frustration.

"Oh, God." He uttered; voice quivering, weak, and absorbed by the pillow. "God."

Ever since he had come back, he had felt heavy. His limbs weighed more than he had remembered, his feet almost immovable and his arms swaying dully, aching in their sockets. He felt lifeless; useless. His bones like thin glass ready to shatter and pierce through the skin. His lungs charred and corroded from the inside out, with every breath like battery acid from the back of his throat; bitter and sickly.

He'd refused himself the food he was given, scraping it into the toilet bowl once Sam had closed the door, and only allowing himself to drink the water when the headaches of dehydration became too unbearable to suffer. He was wasting away. But it was okay, he was okay, because it was on his terms. It was what he deserved.

He scratched into the mattress and pounded it with his fist, his fingers trembling from the pain. Turning his face to the wall, he stared blankly into its faded surface and just breathed. The pillow felt damp against his cheek, and he felt the cold brush of his eyelashes every time he blinked. Suddenly the room fell still, and calm, as if a storm had lifted.

"Dean?" Sam was walking down the hall, his voice echoing against the walls and bouncing into the room. Dean lay quiet as his brother approached and bowed his head in.

"Dean, you hungry?"

He never said a word, and he prayed Sam wouldn't take another step because he couldn't move. He felt fused to the bed in fear that his joints would creak, and whine, and just crumble if he tried. But Sam unknowingly betrayed him as he crossed the threshold and stood by the bed.

"Look man, I know you just wanna' be alone. I don't blame you." He began, "It's just, I'm worried about you."

Dean remained frozen, glaring at the wall and refusing the blink. Every breath felt thick and agonizing in his attempt to cover and control it as his brother stood mere feet away; unaffected and unaware of the armaggedon unfolding before him.

"Dean?" Sam moved towards the cabinet and lifted the worn down needle away from the record. He stayed there and gazed down at the record player, waiting hopeful and expectantly, but Dean didn't stir. He sighed, "Okay, I'm going."

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled.

As Sam made his way to leave, he glanced back and touched the door frame, "Just know that I'm here, Dean. I'm here for you. I wanna' listen, and help you, I.." he paused, "I'm here."

A tear rolled down Dean's cheek, and he didn't let his breath go until Sam was gone. With the click of the door he grasped the edge of the bed, crying out in anguish, his lungs burning. He pulled his other arm from beneath him and grabbed his shoulder, clutching his fingers deep through his thin shirt and into his skin as he began to rock gently back and forth.

"Sam." he murmured, desperate and feeble, as he rolled into the pillow once more; his face buried so deep he could suffocate. The back of his head began to pound, vibrating down through to his jaw, and he whimpered despondently.

"Sam, I.." He whispered, struggling to draw in breathe, "I need you."


End file.
